Supercape

Lament Distributing joy? That wasn't good. It was a note of chaos in a chaotic situation, but that was the stage for you. It was done, all that a good showman could do was roll with it. Joy was a plug and it was leaking out. "You hear that, folks? The Devil wants you to be happy! BUT! What price, hmm? The Devil strikes all the best deals! What does happiness cost? Eh? What discount deals can our friend offer us?" He swept his arms to Ronove, and let the spotlight fall on him once more. Lets see how he deals with that one. Meanwhile, Zombo started circling the stage in half-shadow, waiting for his moment....

GM "Ah.. the little lady calms you?" said Sunshade, slinking along the floor. "Hell! What's that!" screamed the youth, hopping into the air to avoid the animated shadow. "Ooooh... so much emotion," hissed Sunshade. "Have you ever noticed how close anger and anxiety are? Physiologically almost identical. The same spark in the brain, except one makes you fight, one makes you flee. Hmmm...." "The Shadow started forming, becoming a full figure standing on the wet tarmac. "You, Slipstream, is it? You keep your anger bottled up, I think. And this whippersnapper!" he pointed at the youth. "Something very angry in you, isn't there? What is it? No friends? FML?" "Screw you!" said the Teenager, as the ice wall materialised around him. "I'm like a donkey with three carrots! A lot to feed on! And that Ice wall might save him from the wolves, teddy bear, but not me. mmm.. Teddy bear. Yes, I will call you Teddy from now on." Even as he spoke, the spirit started becoming more solid. "Now, the more I feast the stronger I get. And my appetite is infinite. The bottled anger is the sweetest meat!" And on the subject of meat, the six wolves stopped sniffing and started walking to the heroes and the teenager, growling and slobbering. "Looks like these beasts are angry, but not bottled. Shame..." said Sunshade.

Captain Cosmos in The Office Christmas Party TRIGGER WARNING: This account features painfully accurate depictions of an office Christmas party, It was that time of year. The dreaded time of year. The time of year everyone dreaded, but could not admit to dreading. The office Christmas party. Half would drink too much, half would drink to little. This being the world of media, more than a few would disappear to the restrooms to powder their nose and come out bristling with energy. Silly paper hats would be worn, awful secret santa presents would be exchanged, and terrible Christmas music would be played. So terrible that they would drill through the ear and into the hippocampus and linger there on replay for hours to come. It started at 17:00 Buddy took off his tie as a symbol. He unbuttoned the top bottom of his shirt and loosened the collar. As a ritual. He might be impervious to bullets, able to survive in the cold (or hot) reaches of space. But dang, his collar was wet with sweat. This was the office Christmas party. As George Michael started wailing about how he was going to give his heart to someone special this year, Buddy started doing the rounds of shaking hands, smiling, and pretending to have a good time. This Christmas song, especially, filled him with nauseating dread. The threat of a Christmas party office romance was high. Buddy would have preferred being called away to deal with Christmas Tree Man wreaking havoc in liberty park. Ms Collins, the womens hour editor, a middle aged divorcee who had splurged out on plastic surgery and botox, was already drunk. She was cosying up to the new runner, an attractive young woman adorned with a plethora of body piercings. Both were already tipsy, and no doubt that would be red faces on Monday. Perhaps Human Resources might get involved. But perhaps not. Jerry Crane, the head of HR, was already dancing to George Michael, singing along in an out of tune voice, hips waving incoherently to the beat, with a sloshing glass of office punch in his hand. This was heading towards a train crash. Buddy painted a smile onto his face and poured himself a glass of punch. He couldn’t get drunk anymore, but the punch tasted strong. Buddy didn’t miss intoxication. But boy, he wished he could numb his senses tonight. For a sweet moment, he fantasised about becoming one dimensional. A mathematical line, impossible to see, intangible to touch. The paper cup full of punch would fall to the floor, and he would disappear. Lamentably, he would still be fully conscious, able to see and hear everything around him. Almost worse. But at least people wouldn’t try to strike up conversation with him. “Looking good, Buddy! What you doing for Christmas?” Ezma Freeman, make up. The most interesting thing about Ezma was her name. Whilst a competent wizard with a makeup brush, Ezma had a talent for talking about vapid inanities in a loud voice. She would wait for you to utter three syllabuls and then change topic to some other torturously boring subject. “Not much, Ez-“ “Well you should go and get about, Buddy! Maybe some lady might interest you? How about Jane Greenhill, from finance?” “I’m not rea-“ “Or maybe just spending time with your family? Seeing your parents?” “I don’t speak –“ “Hey! They are playing the Chipmunk song! Remember this? Christmas don’t be late? What’s your favourite Christmas song, Buddy?” “I can’t say –“ “Woohoo! Merry Christmas! Do you like this one. It’s---” “Excuse me. Bye.” Buddy abruptly walked off, leaving frowning and slightly incredulous make up artist behind. He had enough of her during working hours. Listening to her drivel on the whole night, getting progressively inebriated, was a fate worse than death. Maybe I can go zero dimensional? The theoretical state he had never tried, nor ever would. It was probably impossible to reach. But! Sweet escape, for it would mean he would cease to exist at all. Arguably zero dimensional was still more dimensional than this party. But now a new dimension appeared. Not boredom, not tedium. No embarrassing fawning by a drunk lech, no whining diatribe on the state of the news or a cancerous marriage. The emotion in question was fear, and it was inspired by the boss. John Gallows, the head of documentaries. An energetic middle aged man with thick glasses and a tyrannical demand that everyone should be as enthusiastic and laid back as he was. The effect, of course, of this dictat was that everyone found their lower orifice puckering and twitching at the mere sight of him. “Hi Buddy. Enjoying yourself, I hope?” “Of course Sir, its Christmas!” “Oh we don’t need any of that sir, Buddy! Its off the clock, isn’t it? We can all let our hair down and relax!” “Of course, Si--- I mean. Of course.” “But as you are here, what do you think about switching up the Brand report a bit? I mean, you aren’t getting any younger, and we have some young talent to foster, heh? Maybe we should lift your editorial burden. What do you say?” “I. Ah…” “That’s the spirit! Say, I’ll book in a meeting new year and we can thrash out some ideas, right? Good to have you on board!” “Uh…” And just like that Mr Gallows was off to another victim. He was, thought buddy, like a worm. He would crawl inside your career and eat it from the inside out. One day, it would be so hollow that it would collapse, and lo and behold, Mr Gallows would have some fresh meat for the grinder to replace you. And then consume. Rinse and repeat. And so on. Buddy did the rounds, steering a complex line between doing enough to place himself beyond reproach, and doing as little as possible within that parameter. A path through the fluxing party people, steering himself as well as he was able away from the time bombs and the dullards, into the path of people whom he might actually spend time with by choice. Lamentably, even those souls were so tense from the situation (a situation where it was office policy not to be tense) that they somehow sapped the last dregs of joy from an already joyless situation. It spoke volumes that Buddy checked the clock every five minutes. It always felt like an hour hand ground past him, but no, it was five minutes. Navigation esoteric dimensional hyperfluxes was a piece of cake compared to this. “Piece of cake, Mr Brand?” offered one of the admin staff, a smile on her face, a paper plate in her hand. “Why not? After all, its Christmas!” said Buddy, hopeful of something remotely sweet to help pass the next five minute stretch. But even the cake was stale.

Sgt Shark in Bonfire Night Finley Finn did not like heat, metaphorical or literal. His action, his violence, was silent and fast. In, claws and teeth out. For his size and strength, few, if any (even the heroes of freedom of city) where so stealthy and cold. Perhaps it was his years experience in the Special Boat Service, doing black ops around the globe. Perhaps it was because he had been transformed into a shark-man hybrid. So heat he did not like. Finley Finn, aka Sergeant Shark, operated from the shadows. If there was a fire fight, he would throw himself into it, out in the open, teeth itching for flesh. But this was not quite so satisfying as the silence and invisibility. But aside from the metaphorical heat, he did not like literal heat either. It dried his skin, made it crinkle and itch. But this was Bonfire night, and Sergeant Shark liked Bonfire night. There was something in the history that appealed to the rebel. A daring soul, defying the government, and playing with fire. Playing with gunpowder. Remember, remember, the 5th of November, Gunpowder, treason and plot. I see no reason Why gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot. And forget, Sergeant Shark would not. And besides all the history, fireworks were cool. Something in them reminded him of battle and shook his spine. But there was no good in running from battle, or even the memories of battle. One had to face them, gaze upon the horror and beauty, and stand firm. For the memories and trauma would come back, whether one ran from them or not. Sergeant Shark was drinking beer with his buddies. Four tough men from the Special Boat Service, the British marine equivalent of the more famous SAS. As the joke went, the SBS had to do everything the SAS did, plus be able to do it in the water. His four buddies were experienced, hardened by battle, focussed yet modest. With that tiny drop of insanity that you needed to join any special forces. They were also around forty. Past their physical prime (although still in excellent shape). Their active career in the SBS was coming to a close, sooner or later. They sat by the bonfire, waiting for the fireworks. A few civvies – the bolder ones – approached Sergeant Shark for an autograph. Ideally, the Sarge would have been but a shadow, unknown to the world. But that was an impossible feat for a half-shark hero. A low profile was the best he could do, even with the Ministry of Powers doing its best to muffle the fame. All four of his old team would give their lives for each other, and Sergeant Shark would give his life for them. The trust was absolute, even now. To the clink of beer bottles, the crackling of burning wood, they discussed the past and future. Laughing at near misses, solemn at losses. But they had told these tales many times. Nothing was lost from retelling, but the conversation edged towards the future. “Guy Fawkes. Hero or Villain?” said Sgt Shark, swigging the dregs of a beer bottle. “Hero!” said some. “Villain!” said others. Eventually all of them agreed that Mr Fawkes was a bit of both. Terrorist, Freedom Fighter, who could really say? A killer certainly, but all of them had killed, and killed many. “Gets you thinking, doesn’t it?” growled the Sergeant. “I mean, you guys have a couple of years left in you, then, what? Desk jobs? Training? Private security?” “Its hard to put down a gun once you picked it up,” conceded one of the men. “You know how it is, Sarge. The worlds full of warriors looking for something to fight. Peace, it kind of itches, an itch you can’t scratch.” “We all got a screw loose!” said one of the men with a laugh. “Else we wouldn’t be doing what we do. Could eat a bullet any mission. We just make sure we stack the odds as high as they go.” “Every brave soldier should fight like a coward!” said another. “That’s how we win. Load the dice.” “And can you put all that to bed?” asked the Sergeant, as a stream of fireworks banged and lit the sky with fragrant oranges and greens. The smell of gunpowder wafted over them. The consensus – grunted, grudging, reluctant – was that they could not. At least, not do so easily. “How about your work for me?” Eyebrows raised, jaws slacked. “What do you mean?” Sergeant Shark gave a shrug and one of his famous toothy shark smiles. “You know I got business. Military still has one arm on me. Vanguard, another. NATO, UNISON, you name it, I’ve had dealings with them. Right now, it ain’t exactly clear who I work for, if anybody. I just draw my service funds, and do what needs to be done.” “You don’t pay to well then…” “I can get some funding. Maybe the government, maybe international. Hell, might even be a little cash with what remains of the vanguard. Money isn’t the problem, although none of us are going to get rich any day soon.” They clinked their beer bottles to that. “What I really need is people I can trust. You know, Guy Fawkes gives me some inspiration. Whatever you think of him, he got things done, right? Even he if he failed, he tried. Thing is, he worked alone.” “And everyone needs a team.” More clinking of beer bottles. “Right. I trust you guys with my life,” said the Sergeant. “You got the skills, the expertise. You know how to operate on the sea, and under it, as good as anyone. Now, you ain’t getting younger. Maybe not as strong or fast as you were…” “Screw you, Sarge!” said one, flexing a bicep. Strong for his age, but past his prime. “You know what I mean. What I need is skill and expertise. Not some 18 year old jock juicing with roids whose going to run a marathon then charge the enemy with a bayonet. I need… well, I need you guys. Guy Fawkes gotta have a team!” The finale of the firework display rattled into the air, exploding in a sheet of brilliant light. Cheers came from the crowd. The four servicemen looked at each other, at the Sergeant, and nodded, raising beer glasses and emptying them down their throats in a final, solemn toast. “Looks like we got our retirement plan then. You got us, Sarge!” The Sergeant finished his own beer, stood up, and saluted. “Welcome to the Special Shark Service, boys!”

Gamma Buzz "Master Mage? Isn't that some kinda grand wizard hocus pocus title? We aren't magicians, ya bozo, just magic!" "And if we go home, it won't be in a bag. It will be in a five star stretch limo full of dancing girls and champagne. Even though I don't drink champagne. And we totally can imagine enough money to buy that. And, er. And the limo will be made of 24 carat gold studded with diamonds as big as your fist. So there!" With a mighty spring, Gamma jumped over the villains head, and stamped down with both feet as he did so...

ok nothing too fancy! An acrobramatico bluff using SM : a 28 result Then a +2 shifted punch Getting 14 which may hit if Baz flat foots him If it does, DC 25 Tough/Dam and DC 15 Fort/Nauseate

Haven "Hmmm. Played." It brought a sour smile to Haven's mouth. It wasn't often that someone outsmarted him with computers, and yet outstmarted he had been. Bet on black, and come up red. He stood up and adjusted his jacket. Someone had their hands on a new and dangerous power suit. Who? OVERTHROW? SHADOW? Maybe Max Mars was behind this all. Or a couple of dozen world class hackers. Maybe a rogue state. The pill would be less bitter if he had access to the schematics themselves. That way, maybe he could assess the threat, track down manufacture. But as it was, he was left with nearly nothing. The only way to avoid losing a fight is to never have one. It was meagre consolation, but it was all he had. He strode out of the cafe, mind spinning over how to track down the mysterious "M"

Haven "The Scion?" Haven closed his eyes, focusing both inward and outward. The sense that something was coming... some data stream, some pattern, he had not quite picked up, but there it was, like a jigsaw that didn't quite make sense yet. Disconnect? It should be easy. It should be just a mental reorientation and he would be back in meatspace. Maybe that was where the danger was? If so, he needed to sprint into action like a bolt of lightning. Easier said that done, for it could be disorientating. Mentally preparing himself, he ejected...

Take it away! I think we can look at a DC 25 TOughness save from the crash, but we aint quite there yet! The HP can be regained instantly for being heroic (landing a burning plane avoinding civiliian casualties) Feel free to land it down Las Vegas Strip And we can avoid casualities. OK, may not make total sense but it very cool,

Gamma Buzz Tremulous inside, jittering organs, bile up to his neck, Baltazar thanks the gods of gamma for his amazing cockroach-agility as he sauntered across the hall (in a swaggering swagger) following Parker and meeting up with Velocity. "A very Cockroach-Christmas to you all!" he said. "After all, Christmas is green, right? And a bit of red and white, but mainly green, because green is the best colour, right? Like me. Pleased to meet you again Velocity. You are off the charts awesome, just like always!" His antennae trembled and he started glowing christmas green. "Oh don't worry about this," he said, trying to pat down the glow from his body. "It's just a bit of harmless lethal radiation. Totally almost safe."

Lament "Behold.... THE DEVIL!" Luther twirled, mumbled and did some hocus-pocus nonsense with his fingers and arms to protect him from evil spirits. About as useful as a chocolate teapot, but it adds to the ambiance! Now, he needed to keep the demon off balance, get his guard down, and then - well, suck the life out of him! Easier said than done! "The devil has come to our mortal realm, summoned by voodou magics! And, yes, ladies and gentlemen, he is here to answer your questions and tell his story! Tremble, and mind your souls, for even my ancient sorcery may not suffice!" Cue dramatic music. Cue smoke and pryrotechnics Cue spotlight on the devil. "What question to answer first? Well, you are the master here, oh Satanic Fiend! First and Wisest of all angels! You chose what to tell, what to answer - tell us your story!"

Cool - at the moment not in combat so feel free to make a couple of posts / actions etc and we shall see what happens! Note - unless under a lamp, we are in dim light conditions. However, as Arctus has darkvision and Lynne has Ultravision this is not a problem for now!

Lament The Great Zombo scuttled onto the stage, face a mask of white paint, ragged purple coat flapping behind him. Eyes wide, hypnotic. From a hunched pose, he sprang up straight, arms wide, to a fanfare of demonic music. "Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight, I, the great Zombo, master of DEATH, bring you the SHOW of a LIFETIME!" "Take great care of your souls! For there is something in the air...." The smell of sulfur poured through the ventilation. "There is something in the ground..." A rumbling tremor reverberated. "There is something from... HELL ITSELF!" Cue pyrotechnics. "BEHOLD! THE DEVIL HIMSELF!" Cue the devil rising from a stage trapdoor! "WHAT QUESTIONS DO YOU HAVE, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN? WHAT QUESTIONS FOR THE DEVIL!"

Gamma Buzz "Lighten up!" replied Baz. He leaned around Pavo and gave a wink to Michael. "Get it? Light-en up! Pretty awesome, right? And you totally aren't seeing tumble weed blow through a dusty wild west ghost town!" He turned back to Pavo and started glowing green, at the same time cracking his cockroach-knuckles. "Right then mister villain. You ain't seen nothing yet! Mainly because I just blinded you with my amazing cockroach-radiation. Hmmm. Well then, you ain't felt nothing yet! Getta loada this!" Gamma Buzz hopped up to the man, pulled back his fist, and let loose a whopper of a cockroach-punch!

Ok activating gamma aura, move action to move, standard action to punch unshifted 18 which I guess hits a flat footed (blind) target? If so DC 23 Tough/Damage, DC 15 Fort/Nauseate (And its contagious!)